H

Fleet Street

E journeys o'er the ocean's foam,

Bridged by the viewless wires that bring News of the world, in quest of Home— Home of his race the poets sing.

Nothing is strange, though all is new-
For all is his! He feels the spell
Of other days which once he knew,
And hears again the oft-heard bell.

The grimy glories of the street

By Johnson loved, St. Paul's great dome, Statue of Anne-his pulses beat

By Esmond seen, ah, this is Home!

Wondrous the trail so deeply worn
By feet of men not born to die-
And Chancery Lane, he could have sworn
He saw Noll Goldsmith hurrying by!

The Inns of Court, Pump Court and Lamb,
The room where Warrington and Pen
Lived, drank, and smoked-he hears the Psalm
From Temple Church, the loud amen.

Greater than all the one who came

From Avon's shores to breast the tide

That swirls through Fleet Street, his dear fame
E'en Eastcheap's slums hath glorified!

With him the rover hears once more
The chimes at midnight, ringing clear
Above the thronging city's roar,

And thanks the gods his Home is here!

England, our England, not alone

To those who own thy sway belongs
Thy fame which round the world hath gone,
Borne, not by arms, but in thy songs!

Men may blaspheme thee, but we bless
Thy star-lit name, and bow the knee
In deepest, tenderest thankfulness,
Proud of our royal debt to thee!

To-night the street is thronged with those
Who speak our tongue, and hail us kin—
And when the doors behind us close

We see Sam Johnson in the Inn!

Louis Howland.

Mother and Son

T is not yours, O mother, to complain,
Not, mother, yours to weep,

Though nevermore your son again

Shall to your bosom creep,

Though nevermore again you watch your

baby sleep.

Though in the greener paths of earth,

Mother and child, no more

We wander; and no more the birth

Of me whom once you bore,

Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore;

Though as all passes, day and night,

The seasons and the years,

From you, O mother, this delight,

This also disappears

Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears.

The child, the seed, the grain of corn,
The acorn on the hill,

Each for some separate end is born
In season fit, and still

Each must in strength arise to work the almighty will.

So from the hearth the children flee,

By that almighty hand

Austerely led; so one by sea

Goes forth, and one by land;

Nor aught of all man's sons escapes from that command.

So from the sally each obeys
The unseen almighty nod;

So till the ending all their ways

Blind-folded loth have trod:

Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God.

And as the fervent smith of yore

Beat out the glowing blade,

Nor wielded in the front of war

The weapons that he made,

But in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade;

So like a sword the son shall roam

On nobler missions sent;

And as the smith remained at home

In peaceful turret pent,

So sits the while at home the mother well content.

R. L. Stevenson.

III. The Sea